


fog

by Splashattack



Series: Wilde Week 2020 [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: A Wilde Week 2020 (Rusty Quill Gaming), Angst, Fog, Gen, Heavy Angst, Infection, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, making my own lore because alex won't give us any, so much fog, this was supposed to have a beta but they became infected sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27739291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splashattack/pseuds/Splashattack
Summary: There had been no fanfare, no suspense‒he was fine, and then he wasn’t. It was as simple as that.written for day one of wilde week.in which the author makes up lore about the victims of these blue veins becausealex won't give us anything
Series: Wilde Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029099
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: A Wilde Week 2020





	fog

**Author's Note:**

> day one: forgiveness/apathy/ ~~revenge~~
> 
> cw for suicide, loss of autonomy, mind control  
> this got VERY heavy. please mind the warnings 💚

Wilde had known something was wrong immediately. There had been no fanfare, no suspense‒he was fine, and then he wasn’t. It was as simple as that.

For all of their research, observations, brainstorming, and panicked half-asleep ruminations, Wilde and his team didn’t really know anything about the blue veins that had swept like a fire through the world. He’d considered so many ways it might make itself known, and in the end all that really surprised him was how gentle the onset had been. It was in the early stages, he knew, but he was still _himself_ , still knew what he was fighting for, still knew to defy the voice whispering of consumption and chaos in some deep crevice of his mind.

He couldn’t leave a note. That, really, was the hardest part of this all. He’d been prepared to die since the day he’d gone rogue‒that wasn’t the issue, per se. No, it was knowing that his team would never know that was the most challenging‒but a note risked transmission, and he couldn’t be responsible for that, at least not while he could still think for himself.

It was becoming harder and harder to put one foot before the other. The scratching desire in Wilde’s mind had faded hours ago, and he was still _himself_ , he could go back and _help_. They knew so little about the veins‒why was it so impossible to think he’d beaten it? He needed to help, how could he justify leaving _now_ , when he was needed most? How selfish did he have to be to _leave_?

Wilde didn’t remember turning back towards the inn, just that it was right, he was meant to help. It wasn’t until he raised a hand to brush away windswept hair and noticed the indigo lines across the inside of his wrist that he realized where he was, and he stumbled away.

It was taking him, and it was _horrible_ , because it still _felt_ like his choice.

Wilde let his mind wander as he pushed through dripping undergrowth. Was this how all the infected lived? Always there, always present, genuinely believing they were making the choice to help while battling through the thickening fog he felt pressing down in his own mind: it was a terrifying prospect. Always on the very cusp of losing yourself‒well, Wilde couldn’t blame them for trying to return to those who had known them best, not when he found himself walking towards the inn once more.

He couldn’t focus. His head was fuzzy, his thoughts like syrup. He’d planned for this, had developed his own contingency plan in case he began showing symptoms‒what was it? The knowledge was there, he could _feel_ it just behind the wall of fog‒

‒a spark, some vague sense of familiarity. Was it the wall? The fog?

The fog. There was so much of it‒in him, around him. It had become a constant of life since the first time he set foot on Okinoshima’s storm-battered shores. It was the first thing he’d noticed, actually‒the amount of mist formed where the ocean crashed into sheer cliffs stood out even more than the velvety swathe painted by verdant undergrowth.

The cliffs. Those were important. He just had to focus a _bit_ harder‒

‒ah.

He could forgive the others infected, if they truly believed they were helping their former comrades. But he was changing, could _feel_ his perception warped by the veins creeping up his arms, and he knew if this continued he would do things his current self would find inexcusable.

Wilde’s body never washed onto the shore.


End file.
